A Date After the End of the world
by Saesama
Summary: Comfort can be found in the most unlikely of places, even after the world ends.


"Twenty years today," Mikaela says softly.

Will looks up from his scavenged breakfast, raising a brow that doesn't quite work right anymore. "Come again?"

Mikaela smiles, a little wistful, a little sad, and shrugs. "Twenty years," she says again. "Since they arrived."

"Oh." Will digs into his green beans again. "You watched them arrive, right?"

Mikaela looks down, lost in the memory. "We watched _Optimus_ arrive," she says. "We were too busy staring to notice the rest of them."

Will snorts, scraping his fork around inside his can to catch the last scraps of edible matter."Jesus, it's been forever," he says.

Mikaela laughs, too quiet and harsh, but laughs are hard to come by, and she'll take what she can. "Twenty years since the beginning of the end of the world," she says, wrapping her mismatched arms around her knees.

"Twenty years since I last got a good a good night's sleep," Will grumbles, stretching. He looks up at the approach of huge, oddly quiet metal feet. "How about you, beautiful? Sleep cozy?"

Ironhide ignores the question, crouching beside the humans. "You are nourished?" he asks.

"I'll never be 'nourished' again," Mikaela says dryly. "It's twenty years since you landed, 'Hide."

Ironhide hrmphs, flexing his fingers. "You humans and your anniversaries," he rumbles. He tips his head, briefly thoughtful, then transforms.

It's a rare sight nowadays. Fast things catch attention, and it's weirdly easier to hide a twenty foot robot than it is a three ton truck. He's not exactly the same as he was when they met him, but they'd never mistake him for someone else. His doors pop open in invitation, and they climb inside.

Mikaela catches herself studying Will. Again. He's still military, despite the shaggy salt-and-pepper hair and beard, and he's still handsome, despite the scar that splits his face from hairline to jaw. There are grief-scars there, too, and she wonders, briefly, if their lives would be easier or harder, had they gotten to Sarah and Annabelle before Barricade. She often finds herself wondering the same thing about Sam and Starscream, Optimus and Soundwave, Bumblebee and Lockdown. A hundred thousand what-ifs and they're all too far away and too many lifetimes ago to cause her any pain to dwell on them.

Ironhide settles around them, the faint hum of his systems akin to a big, metallic hug. They're not safe, they'll never be safe on Earth again, but this is as close as it gets. Here, with the two closest friends she's ever had, fifteen years after Cybertron appeared in the sky and the world ended.

Once, she might have let out a tear or two of sorrow and gratitude. But water is getting harder to come by.

Ironhide hums and a panel on his dash opens. Mikaela gasps. There are two cigarettes and a dusty Bic in the revealed cubby, and Mikaela hasn't seen a cigarette in ten years. "I have been saving them," Ironhide explains, almost sheepish. "For, ah, a special occasion."

"Mother of God," Will says, awestruck. His fingers hover over the narrow tubes, as if afraid to touch and find them an illusion. "You know, should we? There's probably still a few 'Cons that track cigarette smoke."

"Remain in here," Ironhide says. "I will filter the respiration."

Will and Mikaela boggle at each other. A Transformer, allowing, _encouraging_ a human to smoke inside of them? Will picks up one of the cigarettes reverently, and the smell hits Mikaela like a truck. A cigarette! Honest-to-God tobacco!

She half-expects the ancient leaf to go up like tissue when Will lights it. The cherry blooms, darkens the end, and Will inhales smoothly, his eyes closing to savor the sensation. He cracks one eye open as he exhales and smiles, offering Mikaela the lit gift. "Save the other one for ten more years?" he suggests.

Mikaela's lips quirk and she shuts the panel as she leans over. "Keep it safe for us, 'Hide?" she asks.

"Of course," Ironhide answers. The panel clicks with finality. They pass the shrinking tube between them, tapping the ash into Mikaela's vest pocket for later disposal (Ironhide is kind, but they're not about to be rude in the face of his gift) and when their fingers brush, Mikaela notices but does not respond. Once, she would have blushed and pulled away, not out of embarrassment but to make him acutely aware of the contact. Then she would have touched him again and again, until all he could think about was her.

But she's not a seventeen-year-old 'evil jock concubine' anymore. Sure, Will is good-looking, and, sure, she trusts him more than anyone else aside from maybe Ironhide. But there's fifteen years of pain and death and mutual reliance behind their friendship, and she's not going to mess that up now with some misguided attempt at romance. And besides, he's not the only one with scars, and no one wants to sleep with the magical one-armed pockmarked woman and-

Will's looking at her, and her heart skips a beat.

Ironhide growls, exasperated. "Your pheromones are fritzing up my sensors," he complains. "Will you just get on with it?"

Mikaela laughs and Will grins and she's not sure who moves first but her good hand is tangled in Will's shirt and his hands are bruising tight on her arms and he doesn't seem to mind the fletchette scars and she doesn't mind the rough-soft scratch of his beard because she's kissing him for all she's worth and Ironhide hums around them.

And just for a moment, everything is okay.


End file.
